


Fourteen Black Pennies

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Gift Fic, Hogmanay, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two Englishmen, one evil Scottish poltergeist, fourteen corpses and a <i>lot</i> of whisky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fourteen Black Pennies

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Quatorze pennies noirs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2216367) by [Causerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Causerie/pseuds/Causerie)



> This is for [chelseaofbakerstreet](http://chelseaofbakerstreet.tumblr.com/), who won me in fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic’s 10,000 follower giveaway! They requested “New Year’s drunkenness and adorable kisses and sexiness”, and I hope, despite the corpses, that this is drunken and adorable enough for you! I had so much fun writing this, so thank you for the prompt :) 
> 
> This fic has alternately been titled:  
> Auld Lang Cyanide  
> or  
> A Study In Fourteen People Murdered By An Evil Scottish Poltergeist (And Also John Eats A Haggis)
> 
> My eternal thanks to ghoulkitten, for squee, nitpicking and cheerleading <3

“It’s _Christmas!_ ”

Sherlock burst into the living room, wild eyed and grinning, bringing with him a _whoosh_ of freezing air. His hair was covered in hundreds of tiny melting snowflakes, making him look disconcertingly like some kind of sparkly fairy, and he held a leather travel case in each hand.

“Christmas was five days ago,” John pointed out, taking a sip of his tea and edging a little closer to the fire. “You were kidnapped by Mycroft. Have you deleted it already?”

“What? No, no. I have a case! A case, John! There hasn’t been a good one in _months_.”

He swirled inwards, dropping the bags on the floor and clapping his hands together. 

“I got the message this morning. We’re to be in Edinburgh tomorrow. I’ve booked us two tickets on the sleeper; it leaves in,” he frowned at his watch, “three hours. Excellent.”

John gaped for a second. “Edinburgh?” he said, though it came out as more of a high-pitched squeak. 

“Edinburgh?” he repeated, after clearing his throat a bit. “Three _hours_?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock slowly, in the same tone one might use with a small child. “Problem?”

“I…well, no, not technically, but…”

“Then it’s settled. You’ll need to pack. Go on!” He made a shooing motion. John sighed, rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose as he stood. 

“Right. Packing. Edinburgh.”

“And pack a torch. Two, if you have them,” said Sherlock, sliding into John’s seat and wrapping his hand around John’s cup of tea with a contented sigh. John trudged up to his freezing room. Never boring, he reminded himself, as he shoved a week’s worth of pants into his rucksack. 

-

“My granny was from Edinburgh,” said John, as Sherlock poked at the tiny sink in their sleeper cabin. “Used to go up for Hogmanay when I was little; it was nice.”

“We’re not going for _festivities_ , John.”

“Alright, alright. I’m just saying, might be fun. We might go to a ceilidh.”

Sherlock grimaced, and flopped onto the lower bed. “I need a cigarette,” he said, wriggling a little on the sheet.

“What’s the case then? Murder?” asked John, climbing up onto the top bunk and lying sideways so he could see Sherlock in the mirror.

“Possibly,” said Sherlock, his eyes glinting delightedly in the dull glow of fluorescent light. “I never speculate before I have the facts.”

“What happened then?”

Sherlock appeared to ignore him while he fiddled with his phone, then he passed it upwards and indicated for John to listen.

_“Hello, Mr Holmes,”_ said an uncertain sounding voice with a soft Scottish accent, _I’m…I’m sorry to bother you at this time of year, but I got your number from a friend of mine who hired you several years ago. A Miss Gray, you might not remember her. She had a wee dog, it got held to ransom for some kind of painting or somesuch nonsense. You found it, and she was so grateful she wouldn’t stop talking about you for weeks, and then when…when this happened I couldn’t think of anyone else, and I…well. Anyway. That’s not why I’m calling. Sorry, I’m rambling I know.”_ John glanced down towards Sherlock, who was rolling his eyes. _“My name’s Robert Hamilton, and I run a tour agency here in Edinburgh. Ghost tours. We do a few different ones, in the vaults under South Bridge and the like, but we have one that goes into the Greyfriars Kirkyard…where the dog is, y’know. There’s a famous poltergeist. Anyway, the tourists love it.”_

Sherlock was making snapping motions with his hand, mouthing _blah blah blah_. John was fairly surprised he had sat through the entirety of this without just hanging up. He must have been desperate for a case.

_“We go into the kirkyard,”_ the man was saying, _“we give them a bit of background about the poltergeist, and the part of the cemetery we’re in – the Covenanters Prison. It’s said to be haunted by the McKenzie poltergeist, the extremely violent spirit of a man who imprisoned hundreds of Covenanters here in the 9th century. We give them a bit of a scare, make them more suggestible. Now, Mr Holmes, I’m not saying I necessarily believe in ghoulies and ghosties, but some of the things I’ve seen happen to people in there. And now this!”_ His voice wavered, and he cleared his throat, swallowing audibly. _“I’ve seen people come out with scratches all over their arms, and I’ve seen folks fainting all at once, or going almost blue with cold in the middle of summer, but if I’d thought…if I’d thought. There’s,”_ he said, sniffling, _“there’s fourteen people dead, and the police aren’t making hide nor hair of it. They’re saying murder, but I_ knew _Tommy and Tommy would never…he would never,”_ he paused, sniffled again. _“I’d pay you whatever rate you charged if you’d come and find out what happened. Please, Mr Holmes. And…and thank you.”_

The click of the phone on the other end being put down seemed very loud. John glanced down at Sherlock, who was looking up at him with an impish grin.

“I couldn’t very well resist an evil poltergeist mass murderer, now, could I?” he said. “It’s practically enough to make me believe in Father Christmas. I must have been a very good boy indeed.” John threw a pillow at his head.

“Mrs Hudson is right, you’re indecent,” he said, passing the phone back down.

“Decent is _boring_ ,” scoffed Sherlock. John quietly agreed. 

-

He woke up at six, his body clock as predictable as any alarm, and rolled over to look in the mirror. Sherlock was already awake, tapping away at his laptop and chewing absentmindedly at an apple as the train trundled steadily along, swaying from side to side. John wondered if he’d slept at all. He stretched, feeling something pop in his shoulders, and leaned to peer out of the window. It was still pitch black outside, not even a slight glow to suggest it was morning.

“We’ll arrive in an hour or so,” said Sherlock, not looking up from his typing. “Robert is booking a hotel for us, so you’ll be able to shower. You get unreasonable when you can’t.”

John blinked. He did hate not showering, it made him feel itchy and irritable for the rest of the day. Of course Sherlock had noticed. He was Sherlock. Still, John felt a little warm tug in his belly that Sherlock had been thinking about it. 

“Then we’ll visit the crime scene,” Sherlock said, looking up from his laptop in order to rub his hands together gleefully. His hair was sticking out from his head in all directions, and there was the slight trace of a pillow print on one side of his face. He had slept a little, then. Thankfully, John was too far away to give in to the urge to pet him on his fluffy head. Thinking of Sherlock as ‘adorable’ was a truly dangerous path to go down, and he prodded the thought back into submission as Sherlock tossed him a clementine.

“The bodies have been moved to a mortuary,” Sherlock was grumbling, “no doubt some imbecile has pawed all over the relevant evidence too. And I’ll have to work without my equipment.”

He huffed, attempting to look irritated, but John knew him well enough to spot the bright-eyed look of a Sherlock who was vibrating with energy at the start of a new case, fingers twitching for a cigarette.

The sky began to slowly brighten, and the light glinted off the flat surface of the North Sea as the train slowly crept towards Edinburgh. Frost sparkled on the grass as the sun peeked over the horizon, and he could see cows huddled together huffing steams of breath into the chilly morning air. It was going to be a glorious day, from the look of it. John cleaned his teeth and splashed at his face in an attempt to feel more human while Sherlock did something to his hair that made it look as if he’d just stepped out of a salon. He grinned at John, eyes crinkling in that way that only happened when the smile was genuine, and John felt his traitorous insides dance a little twist.

“C’mon then,” he said, glancing away out of the window and seeing the familiar lumpen shape of Arthur’s Seat begin emerge in the distance, “I reckon we’ve got time for a quick cuppa before we arrive.”

Sherlock snapped his laptop shut and followed him out towards the dining car.

-

If he’d thought it was cold at King’s Cross, it was _nothing_ compared to how absolutely freezing Waverley Station was. It seemed to have been specifically designed to allow gusts of eye-wateringly cold wind to blast through it constantly and at great speed, and John nearly cried a little when he saw the length of the queue for a taxi.

“This way,” said Sherlock, leading them away towards the exit. John followed, teeth chattering. 

It must be some kind of black magic, he thought, that Sherlock had. Almost as soon as they’d emerged into the morning sunshine, a black taxi pulled up beside them and John was clambering in beside Sherlock with a grateful sigh.

He sat back and let Sherlock give directions, and after a surprisingly short amount of time they were clambering out onto a steep cobbled lane, and Sherlock was knocking at the tiny painted door of a house that looked like somewhere Jack the Ripper might have enjoyed lurking.

A short, greying man opened the door with a wavering smile on his face. 

“Mr Holmes!” he cried, “and you must be Dr Watson. Welcome, welcome. Come in out the cold.”

The man ushered them inwards, towards a sitting room where a fire crackled in the grate. John chose the closest seat to it, trying not to groan in pleasure at the heat against his back.

“Now,” he said, looking uncertain, “we’ve had a bit of a problem finding you a hotel, what with it being this close to Hogmanay.”

John heard Sherlock give a little sigh. 

“There’s a few places further out, but I was thinking you’d like to be as close as possible and…well. I’ve a spare room with two beds that’s warm and cosy, and we’re about a minute’s walk from Greyfriars, if that would suit you? Free of charge, of course, and my Lucy does a lovely cooked breakfast.”

“That sounds fine, Mr Hamilton,” said John, cutting off whatever protest Sherlock was about to make. “As long as you’ve got a hot shower, I’ll be happy.”

“Robert, please,” he said. “And well, yes. The water pressure isn’t the best in these old houses I’m afraid to say. But we’ve a lovely big bath.”

“Do you have wifi?” asked Sherlock.

“Er, I don’t think so,” said Robert. “There’s a café nearby that does, though. Lucy uses it for her sky pee ee.”

Sherlock smiled his best ‘I am a normal person’ smile as John gently pinched him on the elbow.

“It sounds fantastic,” said John. “Let’s get our stuff in then, shall we?”

Robert sagged a little in relief, leading them up the narrowest staircase John had ever seen and into a spacious, warm bedroom that had two beds side by side, a little side table between them with a lamp. There was a small window that faced out towards what must have been the Castle, and he could see the edge of a graveyard down below. 

“This is nice,” he said to Sherlock. Sherlock ignored him, prodding at his phone and his laptop simultaneously, a frown of concentration on his face. John padded into the bathroom, at the centre of which was an enormous claw footed tub. It looked _heavenly_. He twisted the taps on, returning to the room for his towel and shampoo before poking Sherlock sharply in the solar plexus.

“I’m going for a bath,” he said.

Sherlock nodded distractedly, immediately going back to whatever it was he was doing on his phone.

Twenty minutes later, John was soaking happily, eyes closed, when the door burst open.

“Ha!” said Sherlock. “We have internet.” He looked immensely pleased with himself, and immensely unaware that John was completely naked. 

“Sherlock!” he said, resisting the urge to put his hands over his crotch.

“What?”

“What part of ‘I’m going for a bath’ means ‘please come and disturb me in the bath’?”

“Oh come on. You were in the army.”

Yes, thought John, but none of my army mates made me feel like a ridiculous teenager with a crush. He opened his mouth to respond with something witty and cutting, like ‘fuck off’, but Sherlock had already stalked closer and was peering at his naked chest. 

“Seriously,” said John, face heating as his nipples tightened with the waft of cold air that had drifted in. “Go away.”

“But I want—”

“ _GO_.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock, with an extremely put-upon air. “Breakfast is in twenty minutes, apparently. Then we can _finally_ get some work done.” He stalked out, shutting the door with a bang. John sank slowly under the water, staying under until his lungs were burning and surfacing with a gasp, blinking at the fogged up mirror. Breakfast, right. He dragged his fingertips over his upper thigh with a shaky exhale. Just one little thing to take care of before that…

-

John wasn’t sure he could have been more aware he was in Scotland if he was wearing a kilt and there was a highland cow doing the fling on the table. His plate was heaped high with fried haggis, black pudding and “tattie scones” which turned out to be triangular potato cakes. There was also some kind of square flat sausage, and fried bread, and all in all it looked like possibly the most calorie laden meal he’d ever eaten. He dug in happily as Sherlock chewed on his black pudding with a dubious expression.

“We’ll head over to the kirkyard once you’re done,” said Robert, pushing a forkful of sausage into the remains of a fried tomato. “It’s only a few minutes away, but it’s Baltic out there, so wrap up.”

Sherlock huffed, his fingers dancing fretfully along the arms of his chair. John sighed, abandoning half-formed thoughts of curling up by the fire with a good book, and hauled himself to his feet, patting his belly with a contented hum.

“We’ll go to the graveyard first,” said Sherlock, “and then we have access to the mortuary for one hour.” He scowled at the injustice of it all. “It will have to suffice.”

Somehow, in between arriving at Robert’s and his bath and breakfast, John had forgotten just how ridiculously cold it was outside. He was shivering as soon as he stepped out of the door. Sherlock didn’t seem to be affected by it at all, in his usual attire of coat, scarf and leather gloves. Maybe his hair acted like a hat. John pulled his earflaps further down and shoved his gloved hands into his pockets.

“Just in here,” said Robert, only a few yards up the cobbled street. _Grey Friars_ , said the wrought-iron sign that curved above the entrance. On the other side of the road was a little grey statue of a vacant-eyed dog. It was surrounded by tourists in padded parkas, snapping photographs. 

“Aye, that’s Bobby,” said Robert, wrinkling his nose. “He’s not buried here. Can’t bury an animal on sacred ground.”

“So that grave is empty?” said John, pointing to the ornamental gravestone in pride of place at the entrance. _Greyfriars Bobby_ it said, _Let his loyalty and devotion be a lesson to us all._

“Oh, there’s hundreds of empty graves here.” Robert beckoned them in, leading them around the side of the church. “We don’t lack bodies though. You see this hill we’re standing on? It didn’t exist before the Black Death. So many are buried here that it raised the land you’re standing on almost fifty feet.”

John shivered, mostly from the cold. Sherlock strode ahead, slowing as he came to a large mausoleum next to the path.

“And this is the grave of Bloody George Mackenzie. It’s his poltergeist said to haunt the Covenanters Prison.” He gestured further up the path. “This way.”

Under a large stone arch there was a wrought iron gate locked with a heavy chain and a padlock, and Robert fumbled with the keys. “It used to be open to the public,” he said, “but there were too many strange incidents. Deaths. Now the only time it’s opened is for the tour.”

Sherlock was running his fingers over the archway, the brass plaque set in the stone. He touched them to his tongue briefly, a sliver of pink darting out. John looked away.

The Covenanters Prison wasn’t a building, but a long open courtyard edged with small covered tombs. The ground was grassy underfoot, and a muddy pathway led to the entrance to one of the little stone buildings. Robert beckoned them inwards. 

John had expected that the tomb might offer some small shelter against the cold, but it actually felt surprisingly mild as soon as they stepped over the threshold.

“Feel that?” said Robert. “It’s always a little warmer in here. Something to do with airflow, apparently. We like to tell the tourists it’s because of the ghost.” He looked unsure, as if he was starting to believe in his own tales. 

John smiled, glancing around as Sherlock prowled, prodding and poking at the walls and the floor. He got down on his hands and knees and pressed his face close to the stone floor before standing and reaching towards the curved ceiling.

“All of the victims were inside, correct?” he said, rubbing his gloved hands together.

“That’s right,” said Robert. “Everyone huddles in here, and the guide closes the door and gets them to switch their torches off.”

“So it would have been pitch black.”

“Aye, the torches were off when…when they were found.” Robert’s bottom lip quivered a little. Sherlock rolled his eyes, opened his mouth, and John instinctively gripped him on the shoulder to shut him up before he set their guide bawling. Sherlock sent him a sideways look. 

“Tell me everything you know about what happened,” he said, after Robert had composed himself a little. 

“They were found…fourteen of them, including Tommy, the guide.” He swallowed loudly, sniffed. “Just…just lying here. It’s like they all just lay down on the ground here and let the cold take them. They were found by an old chap walking his dog, who said he’d smelled something odd and saw the gate was open.”

“Something odd?” said Sherlock. “What kind of odd?”

“He…he didn’t say. Only that it was enough to make him curious. Poor bloke, just about had a heart attack.”

Sherlock splayed his hand against the damp stone. “I need to see the bodies,” he said. 

-

Edinburgh City Mortuary was markedly similar to Bart’s: cold and chrome-filled, with the sharp smell of cleaning fluid permeating the air. The smell did nothing to enhance the taste of the lukewarm coffee John was sipping on in an attempt to ward off the chill. He blew on his hands surreptitiously as they were led into the main storage room by a moustachioed police officer, who was busy telling Sherlock about the bodies.

“You’re the first to them, so there hasn’t been a postmortem yet. There’s a queue at this time of year. There’s a few bumps and bruises on them, but nothing fatal, and I’d say it were the cold but for the fact that they were all bundled up as warm as toast. They were about three hours dead when they were found too, not enough time for hypothermia.”

Sherlock gave a hum of vague agreement, scenting the air like a well-bred cat. He generally liked to form his own conclusions rather than hearing those of others, and John could tell from the little upturned curve of his lips that he had his own theories and wasn’t sharing them. He’d ask later, if it wasn’t all done and wrapped up by the end of the day. 

“Here we are,” said the policeman, leading them into a large cold storage area. There were bagged bodies set out on almost every surface, each with a little tray of personal effects that had been found with them. Sherlock gave a pleased little hop on the balls of his feet, eyes already darting around.

“Let’s get started then,” he said, rubbing his hands together with the kind of unreserved glee that routinely made people uncomfortable. The police officer grimaced a little as he pulled the zip on the first bag.

Sherlock circled the body with the air of a large vulture trying to decide on the tastiest morsel to peck at first. He leaned in so close that his long nose almost dragged along the corpse’s skin, and when he pulled on the skin of the eye to open it, the policeman looked away.

“John,” said Sherlock, beckoning him over without looking away from the eye. John peered at it.

He could see what Sherlock had called him to look at. The eyes of the corpse were red with blood, the effect rather ghoulish against the bluish tint to the skin.

“Asphyxia?” he said, a bit of a stab in the dark. Sherlock hummed. He was in his element, cheeks flushed pink with the cold and the thrill of a new case. John looked away, pretending to be interested in the pile of blackened pennies in a nearby tray. Over a corpse was not the right time to be admiring the curve of Sherlock’s upper lip. _Never_ was the right time to be admiring the curve of Sherlock’s upper lip. 

Sherlock flitted from bag to bag, prodding at the eyes of the bodies and sniffing at them. John followed behind him, sniffing surreptitiously. He couldn’t smell anything, but Sherlock always claimed that his senses were more ‘refined’, whatever that meant.

“No sign of bruising around the neck or chest. So why didn’t they just leave? The door wasn’t locked. It was dark, but the room was small.” He turned to John.

“A group of people in the tomb, oxygen suddenly cut off somehow. How long before they lost consciousness?”

“It would depend on the person,” said John. “Could be thirty seconds, could be three or four minutes.”

“More than enough time to leave through the door.” Sherlock paced back and forth a few times.

“Wouldn’t they panic, though?” said John.

“Panic…panic. Panic! Yes!” He strode back to the nearest corpse and zipped the body bag all the way down with a flourish. Its skin was an ugly shade of grey. He pulled out the hands of the corpse. 

“No marks,” he said. “A person trying to escape, panicking, would be using their hands. Scratching at the door, at the floor, at anything. None of the bodies have marks on their hands. So they weren’t trying to escape.”

“They just lay down and died?”

Sherlock didn’t answer him, resumed his pacing.

“I need to go back to the tomb,” was all he said. 

-

They emerged into the cold winter sunshine to the sound of bagpipes on the Royal Mile above them. Sherlock blew on his fingers and shot John a sunny grin from behind them, making a little curl of warmth settle in John’s belly. He grinned back.

-

“John, look!”

“I can’t see anything back there!”

“Come closer, then.”

John shuffled towards the back of the tomb, where it was almost too gloomy to make out the wild silhouette of Sherlock’s hair against the dark stone. He could see the pale shape of a hand as it beckoned him. He crouched down, the heat of Sherlock’s leg bleeding through his jeans as they pressed together. 

“Put your hand down here,” said Sherlock, curling his freezing fingers around John’s wrist and pulling him down.

Half distracted by the feeling of Sherlock’s skin against his, John almost didn’t notice it. A breeze, coming from the _back_ of the sloped tomb. 

“It’s warm!”

“Hm,” said Sherlock, still holding John’s wrist. He seemed to remember himself as he went to stand up, and John was left crouching in the dark, the skin of his palm tingling where Sherlock’s fingers had dragged slowly along it. 

He rubbed his palms against his thighs, and stood to watch as Sherlock scraped samples from various points on the walls and floor into little plastic bags. To get right to the back where the source of the breeze was, he had to completely flatten himself against the floor and wriggle. John went to stand outside.

Sherlock was prodding at his phone when he finally emerged, eyes flickering over the screen. He was somehow only a little dirty, but John’s fingers itched to rub at the dark smudge on the very tip of his nose. It made him look strangely adorable. And there he was, thinking it again. He gave himself a little mental shake as Sherlock glanced up, eyes bright, and shoved his phone towards John’s face.

“Earthquakes, John!” he said. “Earthquakes!”

John could see a map of Scotland, covered in red dots. 

“Earthquakes?” he said.

“Yes!” said Sherlock. “Here, look.”

He poked at a dot which was obscuring most of the South East, and a graph popped up. 

MAGNITUDE 1.2. DEPTH 0.4M. ORIGIN TIME 19:22:27.9 GMT. LOCALITY EDINBURGH CITY, LOTHIAN. DATE 29/12/12.

“That’s it!”

“That’s….that’s, okay, what?”

But Sherlock was already on his way out of the kirkyard, Robert in tow. John tucked his scarf more firmly under his collar and hurried to catch up.

“It wasn’t murder,” said Sherlock, as they sat in Robert’s living room. As soon as they were inside, he’d hurried off upstairs and returned with a microscope, which was now set up on the living room table. John had no idea how he’d squeezed it into his suitcase. He was peering into it at one of the samples which now lay scattered around him.

Robert leaned closer, clutching at his mug of tea.

“You’re sure?”

“Obviously,” said Sherlock, adjusting the scope and prodding the slide a little to the left. “The warmer air coming from the back of the cave, if I am not mistaken – which I rarely am - is coming from _underneath_ the kirkyard.”

“ _Underneath?_ You mean, from…from the pits?” 

“Or deeper. Ha! Yes, I’m right. Of course I’m right.” He looked up from the slide with an enormously smug expression. His nose still had the smudge of black on it.

“So you’re saying,” Robert paused, frowned, “…what are you saying?” 

“I took these samples from the walls and roof of the tomb, and from around the air vent. Along with the usual detritus, there are particles of _subsoil_. Unmistakable. Higher concentration around the vent.” He pointed to the slide. It looked to John like a splodge of dirt. It _was_ a splodge of dirt. A splodge of highly informative dirt, apparently.

“So…what does that mean?”

Sherlock sighed. “There was a minor earthquake that night, at around seven twenty pm, exactly the time you had projected the group to be in the tomb.” He tapped at his phone, swivelled it on the table so Robert could see.

“Too minor to be detected on ground level, and as we can see here, about half a mile under the surface. Exactly the right depth to disturb pockets of gas underground.” 

“Pockets?”

“Mm. You mentioned earlier that the man who’d discovered the scene at the tomb had noticed an odd smell. It was both too soon and too cold for decomposition to have begun, so that smell was my first indication.” Sherlock stood, in full swing. “The corpses had a faint scent of sulphur to them. Rotten eggs, if you will. Almost as faint as to be undetectable, but unlike most, I am not squeamish about getting my nose close to the bone.” He grinned at his own pun.

“The scent of sulphur coupled with the reddened eyes could have been evidence enough, but it was John who noticed the obvious.”

“It…it was?” said John. He frowned, trying to think.

“Yes! The copper coins. If you hadn’t noticed them, I might have been too preoccupied with the bodies.” 

John tried not to blush, remembering _why_ he’d been poking at coins instead of helping. Sherlock’s lips were bowed in a smile as he looked at John. “And that’s where the final clue lay,” he said. “The initial strong scent of sulphur, damage to the eyes, discolouration of copper in the pockets of the victims. All the evidence pointed in one direction: to a lethal concentration of hydrogen sulphide.” 

John grimaced. “The knock-down gas!”

“Exactly. Instantly fatal even at low concentrations, enough to kill immediately with a single breath. The victims appeared to have simply fallen down dead because that is exactly what happened. But where had it come from? The evidence was in the tomb itself, the odd temperature difference. Hydrogen sulphide is a by-product of decomposition, and in an oxygen poor environment can be produced in enormous quantities. The plague pits under Greyfriars were sealed off very carefully in order that the disease wouldn’t spread further…”

“Creating massive underground pockets of hydrogen sulphide,” finished John.

“Which were then disturbed by the earthquake, yes,” said Sherlock. “And an enormous quantity of it was forced upwards, towards the only open vent.”

“The one in the tomb!” said John. “God, those poor people.”

“They would have been dead in less time than it would take to hit the ground,” said Sherlock. “Not a bad way to go.”

Robert, silent throughout Sherlock’s final discourse, burst into tears.

-

John looked at his watch as they finally stumbled out of the station, his hand cramping from signing so many sheets of paper. Eleven thirty, over sixteen hours since they’d stepped out of the train into Waverley Station. He could hear the _pop, pop, pop_ of hastily set off fireworks already. Sherlock stuck his arm out, and, magic at work on the busy street, a black cab slid alongside the kerb.

Robert opened the door when they knocked and leaned a little unsteadily against the frame.

“And here they are!” he said, breath a mist of whisky. “You,” he said, prodding Sherlock in the chest. “You’re a lucky one, you are. Tall and dark, too! You’ll be our first foot.”

“I…what?” said Sherlock.

“First foot,” said John. “The first person to step over the threshold in the New Year. It’s supposed to be very lucky.”

“Well, why can’t you do it?”

John reddened. “A first footer has to be tall, dark and handsome,” he said, willing himself not to stumble over the words as he avoided Sherlock’s gaze.

“Oh,” said Sherlock.

Robert glanced between the two of them. Then he patted them both on the back.

“Only twenty minutes, lads. I’ll bring you a wee nip and some black bun to keep you warm.” He shut the door, leaving them both on the step.

“This is ridiculous,” said Sherlock. “It’s _cold_.”

“It’s only a few minutes,” said John. “And you _are_ very lucky.”

“It’s nothing to do with luck,” grumbled Sherlock. Though he grumbled a lot less when he had a hipflask full of single malt in one hand and a buttery, crumbling slice of fruit cake in the other. John felt the urge more than ever to lean over and lick the stray crumbs of pastry from his lush lower lip. He bit a little viciously into his bun.

As the clock struck midnight, the sounds of muffled cheers erupted from indoors, and the street was suddenly awash with red and gold light as the castle began to spew fireworks in every direction. 

“Happy New Year!” said a girl dressed in a ballgown as she hurried past them on the street, skirt pulled upwards. “Happy New Year,” said John.

“Arbitrary celebrations,” said Sherlock, taking a long swig from his hipflask and wrinkling his nose at the fireworks. John smiled at him as he was lit angelically from behind by an enormous sparkling firework halo. Sherlock looked down at him, and suddenly his expression softened, his eyes dark. He licked his lips, opened his mouth. John’s gaze darted from his eyes downwards and back up again. The air seemed to crackle a little, and John could see Sherlock’s pulse very clearly. He swallowed, heart thumping, and watched as Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement.

Then the door swung open suddenly, bathing them both in light and warmth. John jumped, startled. Sherlock didn’t move at all, still staring at him.

“In you come then, friends! You first, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock turned slowly, then plastered his most friendly fake smile on his face (which wasn’t very friendly at all) and stepped over the threshold, to much cheering, hugging, and, most of all, drinking. 

There was a _lot_ of drinking.

-

“You’re…you’re ‘mazing,” John said. Slurred. For possibly the sixth…seventh…somethingth time. He blinked slowly until the two Sherlock’s beside him merged back into one. “Gas pockets! Never woulda thought of it.”

“Thass why you’re not the consut…conson…con…detective,” said Sherlock. He slumped a little more against John’s side. 

“’m a good assistant though,” said John. Sherlock was _warm_. He squirmed a bit closer.

“The best,” said Sherlock. John looked at him. Sherlock looked back, blinked a long, slow blink like his thick eyelashes were too heavy for their lids. Sherlock’s cheek was flushed and smooth looking, and what could one little kiss hurt? Just a little one. For New Year.

“Just a little one,” he murmured, and leaned over, pressed his lips to Sherlock’s cheek. It was warm. Smooth. He sucked a tiny little bit. Licked a tiny, tiny little bit. Just a taste. Sherlock didn’t move (was, in fact, stiller than a statue) so he did it once more, moved his mouth a little bit closer to Sherlock’s. Daring. His heart pounded; thump, thump, thump.

“H’ppy New Year,” he got halfway through saying, and then Sherlock had turned his head the smallest amount, and John’s lips hovered against the corner of his mouth. So close that he could feel the way Sherlock’s breath shivered out on the exhale. He pressed his lips there. Touched another little touch with his tongue. Sherlock made a noise. A tiny little nothing of a noise, but it reached right into John’s chest and squeezed at his heart. His lips brushed against the very edge of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock stood, abruptly, swaying only a little, and John suddenly felt very cold. He scraped a tooth hard over his lower lip against all the tingling going on there, frowned down into the empty glass in his hand. Looked up again. Sherlock was still standing there, looking at him. Sherlock was reaching an unsteady hand out and _oh_ , tracing his middle finger lightly over John’s lower lip. Then he was leaving, towards the stairs. Oh. _Oh_. John followed.

He opened the wooden door at the foot of the stairs and was pulled abruptly through and pressed back against it by miles and miles of long, warm Sherlock. Sherlock’s hands were on John’s hips, and that was definitely more than friendly. His thumbs slipped under John’s jumper, under his shirt, and John had to bite his lip to stop the shocked moan escaping as long fingers slid up towards his ribs. The feel of them was _incendiary_.

“Oh,” he breathed, arching. Sherlock clutched tighter. Leaned forwards. Pressed his lips to John’s cheek, and, with tiny little kitten kisses, worked his way around. John opened his mouth, whimpered as Sherlock pressed a wet little kiss to his lower lip. Another. Another, until John was shivering against him from the feel of it.

“Kiss me,” murmured Sherlock, and John groaned and slid a hand into Sherlock’s thick hair and they were collapsing back onto the stairs in a flurry of limbs, mouths smearing against one another frantic and panting.

John found he couldn’t stop kissing Sherlock. His mouth was so, so lovely. It tasted like whisky, and warmth, spiced cake and delicious Sherlock and it was so soft. We should get up, he thought. We should move. He kissed Sherlock again. Licked at his lower lip. Licked at his soft pink tongue. 

“We should move.” He murmured the words into Sherlock’s mouth so they wouldn’t have to stop kissing.

“Mm,” said Sherlock. He squirmed a bit, until John was kneeling straddled over him, then he arched upwards, gripping John’s hips. 

That was…that was…

“Oh,” said John. “You’re… _oh_.”

Sherlock arched again, ground them against one another, and John could feel him hot and thick through his trousers. He panted a little bit, wanting nothing more than to rut and squirm and kiss but Sherlock was pushing him off and standing up, tugging on his collar.

“Come on,” he said, turning to scramble up the stairs. John followed.

Sherlock fell onto the bed, and John fell on top of him. He laughed into Sherlock’s mouth, and then stopped laughing because he was too busy kissing. Sherlock’s tongue, usually sharp as a barb, was gentle as it slid over his lower lip. Sherlock’s spidery fingers were gentle as they stroked up John’s sides. Everything about Sherlock was as soft as it was usually sharp, even his voice, which was thick and syrupy like honey.

“Let me,” he said, nuzzling sweetly into John’s neck, “let me…my mouth, let me put my fingers…on you. In you.”

And John, feeling playful, tugged Sherlock’s hand up to his mouth and licked at his fingers until Sherlock was laughing, sucked them down until his eyes went wide, and his mouth went soft.

He pushed and pulled at Sherlock’s legs until they were on either side of his ribs, then he ground down with a slow squirm that had Sherlock groaning low in his throat. He wished they were naked; his mouth went dry at the thought of it.

“I want—“ he said uncertainly, tugging a little on Sherlock’s belt. Sherlock pushed him off without much ceremony, and John’s heart leap into his throat, but then Sherlock was saying “ _yes_ , yes,” and pulling his trousers off his long, long legs, fumbling at his buttons.

“ _John,_ ” he said impatiently, flinging his shirt to the floor. And then he was long and pale and bare on the sheet, slinking one hand down onto his flushed pink cock and John swallowed, stared. 

“I—what?”

“ _Clothes_ ,” Sherlock said insistently, spreading his legs a little. John didn’t think he’d ever managed to get naked in such a short amount of time. He was still hopping to pull a sock off when Sherlock, impatient, leaned forwards and pulled him down onto the bed and they ended up in a messy, undignified sprawl that felt just _fantastic_. 

It felt even _more_ fantastic when he’d gathered enough brain-power back to start moving: small, shivering pushes of his hips against Sherlock’s, and then when Sherlock began to hesitantly do the same, _oh_. John’s head dropped to Sherlock’s collarbone. He panted. Sherlock wrapped his legs around him.

“Fuck,” said Sherlock, harsh and low. “Oh, _fuck_ , John.”

John squirmed. The slide between them grew slicker. He dragged his nails through the fine hairs on the backs of Sherlock’s thighs and Sherlock made that _noise_ again, that little sobbing whimper that made all the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up, that had heat spooling dark and delicious in his belly.

“Alright?” he murmured, because he could feel the way Sherlock’s legs were trembling where they were tight against his ribs.

“I’m about to come,” gasped out Sherlock. “ _John_ \--” And then his hands were clutching at John’s back, legs tightening. 

And John _felt_ him. Felt the low, wet pulse against his belly, again and again as Sherlock jerked and shivered under him. John collapsed downwards, fucked frantic against the slick mess on Sherlock’s skin and was suddenly so close he could taste it. 

“Going to come on you,” he gritted out, darting his tongue out over Sherlock’s lower lip, “make a mess of you, oh _fuck_ ,” and Sherlock moaned into his mouth and pushed his softening cock upwards. John bit at his lip. Rutted against the slippery come on his skin, and came in what felt like slow motion, waves of it spilling through him as he sighed against Sherlock’s mouth.

-

John blinked his eyes slowly open, then immediately winced and burrowed a little deeper under the covers. His head hurt. He needed a piss. His mouth felt like he’d been eating sand, and didn’t taste much better. He _was_ deliciously warm though, and the bathroom looked far too far away to be bothered with. He yawned, stretched, started as his flailing hand hit what felt like some sort of small furry animal.

“What the f—”

“Shusssh,” growled the animal. Sherlock. Sherlock in his bed. He moved his hand a little further downwards. Sherlock _naked_ in his bed. Oh.

“Mm,” said Sherlock, and wriggled a tiny bit against his wandering hand, which he snatched back and then immediately wished he hadn’t.

“Um,” said John. Then it was more like “Umph!” because Sherlock had flopped over and had pressed his face against John’s in what might have been the laziest approximation of a kiss he’d ever encountered.

“I—” he began, but stopped as Sherlock growled against his face.

“Must we?” he huffed.

“Must we what?” He tried half-heartedly to get away, but Sherlock had, while he hadn’t been paying enough attention, clamped an iron grip around his waist.

“ _Talk_ about it.”

“Well…no, I suppose, but what…oh. _Oh_.” Sherlock was nuzzling against his cheek, and the hand that he had insinuated between them flexed just enough to make John’s mouth drop open.

He supposed talking about it could wait till later. Much, much later. 

“Or never,” said Sherlock, mouthing along his jaw.

“I _am_ a- _oh_ -aware that you can’t actually read my mind, you know,” he said. Moaned, really.

“Practically can,” murmured Sherlock. “You,” he flexed his fingers again, “are so very… _ah_ …obvious.”

“I--”

“Dilated pupils,” he breathed, “elevated pulse. It’s been very,” he paused delicately in his exploration of John’s neck, “ _distracting_.”

“Well your _face_ is distracting,” said John. Not his best, he was willing to admit, but Sherlock’s fingers were long and lovely and clever and two of them were slipping rhythmically over the slick head of his cock with maddening delicacy.

“Yes, I’m aware,” said Sherlock, sounding far too put together. “You—”

John shut him up with his mouth. It was, he thought, the most satisfactory method he’d come up with in the three years they’d known each other. He mentally patted himself on the back. Then Sherlock twisted his fingers in the most delicious way, and suddenly he wasn’t really thinking about anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to devinleighbee for creating some lovely [cover art](http://25.media.tumblr.com/4a75b319c1148303465c33d464e2262f/tumblr_mgcdc6SQ4q1qdkkxuo1_500.jpg) for this fic!


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